


Bucky Barnes Drabbles

by beckzorz (heckofabecca)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 1940s!Bucky Barnes, Biker Bucky Barnes, Canon-Typical Violence, Chapters have various ratings, F/M, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Professor Bucky Barnes, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-05-15 01:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19284859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/beckzorz
Summary: Drabbles feat. Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier.





	1. Screwed

“If this is your idea of romance, you’re screwed.”

Bucky twists his head to glare at you. “Listen, sweetheart, maybe if you hadn’t sprung a trap we’d be having a better time.”

“Sure, Barnes.” You lick your thumb and try to wipe a streak of dirt off the collar of your dress. How much money did you spend getting ready for an _‘urban adventure’_ with a hot superhero? And how much of it is already wasted, fifteen minutes in? Dress ruined, hair mussed, heel broken. “Because of the two of us, I’m _definitely_ the one with training in disarming traps.”

No response. Bucky tests the smooth walls of the bunker, looking for a crack, a door, anything.

Okay, maybe you _shouldn’t_ have tested that lever. But you’re with an Avenger! You should’ve been _safe_. Not dropped thirty feet down a chute onto a filthy thick mattress in a bunker.

If only the chute hadn’t closed after you. Bucky could climb out, get help. But no, you’re sealed in like a can of tuna. And with your broken shoe, you’re not much help. At least the mattress is mostly just dusty. No broken glass or anything weird like that. It’s just cold and dark, with only your cell phone flashlight for illumination.

Bucky circles the perimeter. You tug his discarded bomber jacket over your shoulders for warmth. You’re flooded once again by the smell of him, heady and rich and unique. You breathe it in as you watch him work, the shifting of his muscles under his tight shirt plus the occasional glimpse of that perfect profile enough to get your heart beating a little faster. Not to mention the way his black jeans strain against his thighs and ass as he crouches in the corner. You lick your lips and shift on the mattress.

“Might not be romantic, but you’re getting turned on anyway,” Bucky says out of the blue.

You gape. “Excuse me?!”

He smirks at you over his shoulder. “I can hear your heartbeat, y’know.” His nostrils flare, but you cut in before he can comment on anything else.

“Well that’s none of your goddamn business.”

His laugh is bright and delightful and _warm_ , so warm you wonder if you really do need the jacket over your shoulders. Then you breathe in again, catch his scent, and decide yes, you certainly do.

“So,” he says eventually. He’s about halfway around the bunker now. “What _would_ be romantic?”

“Significantly less dust,” you say at once.

He snorts. “Adventures aren’t usually clean, y’know.”

“Well, this is the wrong kind of dirty.”

The words leave your lips before you realize just what you’ve said. A flush pricks at your cheeks, but you don’t correct yourself. He asked a question, and you’re just being honest.

Bucky pauses. He’s crouched down on one knee a few feet from you, his metal hand splayed on the wall and gleaming in the diffused light. Your eyes dart between those sleek fingers and the curve of his jaw.

He turns his head just enough for you to see the glitter in his dark eye. One quick inhale, and he barrels into you, knocking you back onto the mattress with a gasp, his metal hand curled around the side of your neck as his breath washes over your face and his chest brushes yours. You can feel how warm he is even though not one inch of his skin is touching yours.

Then he ducks his head and sucks a mark against your throat. You arch into him, crying out, the sensation shooting straight to your breasts, between your legs. You bury your hands in his hair, tight and barely in control. It’s an eternity before he pulls far enough back to meet your eyes. And his eyes, normally so blue, are _utterly_ black.

“Is _this_ the right kind of dirty?” he murmurs.

You tilt your hips up, teeth bared in a reckless grin as you brush up against the bulge in his jeans. “Not yet.”

A growl. A harsh rip of your dress, and then two of his fingers are _stuffed_ inside you. Your scream is all pleasure; it echoes in the bunker, fading into a desperate moan as Bucky’s thumb circles your clit, your arousal slick. Your panties are shoved to one side, biting into one hip, but you barely register it.

“You smell so damn sweet,” he groans. He shoves your legs apart and buries his head between your legs, hooking one over his shoulder. Your hands are still tangled in his hair, and it’s all you can do to hold on as he swipes his tongue through your damp folds.

The bunker fills with the wet sounds of Bucky eating you out, his mouth working in tandem with his fingers as he brings you to the brink faster than you can ever remember. Maybe it’s the lightness in the air, maybe it’s the danger, maybe it’s _him_ —but it’s minutes before you’re half-blind and babbling, his name falling like a prayer from your lips.

“Bucky Bucky _fuck_ —oh _god_ , yes, please, don’t stop— _oh!_ ”

You can’t see his eyes, can’t see his face, but you can feel the smirk on his face as he sucks your clit into his mouth, _hard_.

Your body seizes up, pleasure lancing through you from your clit to your nipples to your hazy brain, the tips of your fingers and your toes curled, one foot bare and pressed against Bucky’s shoulder. Spasms wrack your body as you ride out your orgasm, Bucky’s fingers still thrusting inside you until you come back to yourself.

You collapse, breathless, your leg falling back onto the mattress and your hands sliding out of his hair. Bucky sits back on his heels, licks his lips, kneads your thighs. He hasn’t even kissed you yet, but he looks more smug than any man has a right to.

“Was _that_ the right kind of dirty?”

“Screw you, Barnes.”

“If you insist.”

As it happens, you do.


	2. Petulant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky threatens to bend a petulant reader over his knee, unexpectedly turning them both on.

“Fucking—” a heavy pant as you adjust the crowbar between the doors of a fused-shut cabinet— “ _hell!_ ”

“Can you keep it down?” Bucky snaps. “I’m trying to keep this damn bomb from going off in our faces!”

“Oh, boo hoo, Bucky.” You finally manage to pry the cabinet open. The crowbar clatters as you toss it aside. The ticking of the bomb is background music as you stare at a dozen blinking hard drives. “Are you kidding me right now?!”

“Will you shut _up!_ ”

You whirl and glare at Bucky. He’s kneeling on the floor, a screwdriver behind his ear and his most dangerous knife in hand. In the other hand? A bunch of colored wires.

It’s a cross between adorable and terrible. Bucky with anything tucked behind his ear is the cutest, but… the bomb. Still, it’s not like you’ve got forever even if he does get the bomb sorted out.

Which he will.

You spin back to the cabinet and pull up the mission details on your wrist com. “Which drive… which drive…” You run your fingers down the serial numbers, mouth barely moving as you mutter along.

“I swear to god,” Bucky growls, “if you don’t shut the _fuck_ up I’m going to bend you over my knee and—”

He breaks off. You go quiet, a finger still on the seventh drive. The ticking speeds up. Bucky swears under his breath, breathing labored. You’re careful with your own breathing, but you can’t hide the pounding of your heart, or the sudden weakness in your knees that has you sagging at his crude threat.

There’s a sharp _snap_ as Bucky cuts a wire, but the ticking keeps going.

“Red,” you whisper. Your voice is raspy; you clear your throat. “Red,” you repeat, more clearly this time.

Another snap, and the ticking stops.

Silence falls heavy, except for his breathing and yours. You bend to read the last few serial numbers. Typical—the one you need is the last one. You tug it a few inches out, and then a shadow falls over you.

Bucky’s hand ghosts along your neck, tracing a line down from behind your ear. You shudder and tilt your head away, exposing your throat to him. You hear, rather than see, as he falls to his knee. One of his legs is between yours; he’s pressed against you, the bulge in his uniform hot against your ass.

“That wasn’t very nice of you,” he murmurs. His hand settles on the base of your neck; the other squeezes your other hip. “And I just saved your life.”

Your head swims. “Thought I told you which wire to cut,” you manage.

“Uh uh, honey.” He tilts your head sharply, and you see quite clearly the two cut wires: blue, and yellow. Not red. “Wrong _and_ naughty.” He shoves you over his knee; you cry out, surprised, as Bucky bends over you, his eyes black as midnight sea and his breath hot against your ear. He squeezes your ass tight enough to bring a whimper to your lips. A rush of arousal tingles between your legs.

“ _Bucky…_ ”

“Now how will you make it up to me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think xoxo
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing, please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/beckzorz)


	3. Well Matched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re sparring with Bucky and putting up a good fight. You let him slam you into the mat, and he puts his hand to your throat. _Turns out you like that._

Grunts, coupled with the occasional snarl. A flurry of kicks, jabs, uppercuts, lowercuts, feet stamping on the mats and once in a while on your opponent’s foot. Controlled breathing, racing heart, tingles of adrenaline rushing straight through to your fingertips as you hook your arm around his elbow and throw him off-balance.

But like a cat, Bucky Barnes seems always to land on his feet.

You break away from him with a pout and wipe your neck with your shirt. A moment’s respite, one you wouldn’t get in the field.

“ _Most_ people would’ve been knocked over by that,” you say.

“Sure,” Bucky says, casually. He’s still, relaxed, calm. Hasn’t even broken a sweat. His gray sweatpants are absolutely dry, not to mention slung extra low on his hips. The bastard. “But you didn’t choose to spar with _most people_.”

“My mistake,” you growl, charging him.

Bucky ducks out of the way. Just as you expected, he circles back to grab you around the waist. You suck in a steadying breath as he lifts you off the ground, slams you on the mat. Your teeth rattle, and you jab your stiff fingers straight at his jugular.

But like a cat, Bucky Barnes always seems to sense you coming.

He elbows your hand aside and puts his metal hand to your throat, his face hovering over yours. A slight pressure, and you’re gasping for air. It’s impossible to breathe, impossible to take your eyes from his face, impossible to move. Bucky’s straddling your thighs, one of your hands caught in his. Your other hand is clenched around his metal wrist. Your vision is fuzzy around the edges as you gape at Bucky, your whole body flaring with sudden, unexpected heat. Blood rushes in your ears. Your thighs clench, and a little moan escapes you.

Bucky pulls back so fast you wonder if he was burned by the scorching flush creeping down your neck.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks hurriedly.

“No…” You sit up carefully, face flaming as you realize that there’s a dampness between your legs that is _definitely_ not sweat. Bucky’s eyes widen, and you know with sudden dismay he knows _exactly_ what’s just happened.

But he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t even run away. He inches closer, his darkening eyes darting around the empty gym before settling back on you.

“Of all the people to get turned on by being beaten, I never would’ve expected _you_.”

You shake your head, unable to form words. Bucky’s stance is all power—shoulders set back, broad; arms curling to display those delectable muscles and the whirring plates of his metal arm; chin lifted with his exquisite jaw on display. He’s closing in on you now, and with a harsh shove you’re back on the floor, his knees pressed on either side of your heaving chest.

Your heartbeat runs a frantic rhythm. You tilt your head back, lips parted, baring yourself to him. Bucky licks his lips and slides his hand up between your breasts to settle back around your neck. You buck your hips up without thinking, your hands flying to his powerful thighs as he bends low over you.

“To be fair,” he murmurs, voice husky, “I wonder if this doesn’t make us both winners.”

You squeeze his thighs and slide your hands closer together until his breath catches and his eyes flash dangerously.

“Careful,” he warns.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you say, smiling innocently.

It’s a reach—your shoulder burns a little—but you manage to run your hand along the outline of his cock until he’s gasping. Then you buck your whole body up and sideways, sending Bucky toppling to the side.

You land on his chest, your knees on either side of his neck and your hand on _his_ throat, laughing breathlessly, hips grinding ever so slightly against his chest.

“ _Now_ we’re both winners,” you tell him.

Bucky snorts. He squeezes your ass; you gasp, but you don’t swat his hands away. You just move yourself back until you can feel that delicious hard cock of his between your legs. Until your chest is pressed tight against his. Bucky grinds his hips into yours, and your hands spasm against his neck, tug at his hair. He tilts his face up and just barely brushes his lips against yours.

“How about we take this somewhere else?” he murmurs.

“Oh?”

His grin is wicked. “Winners get to fuck on my bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think xoxo
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing, please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/Y8Y6WX0V?)


	4. No Hurt, No Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is afraid of hurting you. You prove him wrong.

“I trust you,” you insist.

“You don’t know me.” Bucky shoulders he way past you, his hand curled tight around the doorknob and his back to you before he speaks again. “You don’t want to.”

He’s out the door in half a breath, and you drop back onto your mattress with a sigh, hand splayed on your bare stomach.

“But I do,” you murmur.

 

—

 

Weeks go by. Bucharest is cool in April, warmer in May. Your tiny studio gets a little more light day by day as the days lengthen, and you can’t help but wonder what your new neighbor is up to. All you know is the disappointment of your one proper meeting, where he’d given in to your begging to come change a bulb in the ceiling.

The light works now, but you couldn’t help but wish he’d let you light _him_ up, too. You pass him every few days on the steps, but he avoids your gaze.

It’d be easier if he didn’t. You can hear him, once in a while, pacing in the apartment beside yours, too late at night for any sane adult to be awake. Late hours? Insomniac? You don’t know.

One night, after a late night of your own and not nearly enough tips to make up for the downpour, his sharp pacing is too much. You knock on the wall between your apartments, and it stops.

You can imagine the look on his face. The same shock he’d shown when you’d caught his face in your hands and kissed him, maybe even the horror when you’d peeled off your sweater.

You wish he wasn’t so afraid. How can someone so beautiful be so _afraid?_

It’s criminal, or it should be.

You climb up off your mattress. Barefoot, wearing only an oversized shirt, you slip out your door and scratch lightly at his. The creak of a slat, and you know he’s there.

“What are you afraid of?” you whisper.

The door eases open. One bright eye glitters out from the shadows. “You’re insane to not be.”

“Well, no one sane is up at this hour.” You step back, beckon him into the hall, into your place. “Come.”

Something hangs in the air between you. Tension, a cord, thick and heavy and pulsing like your heart between your legs.

“ _Come_ ,” you say again, half a plea, half an order.

And he does.

 

—

 

“I can’t touch you,” he tells you. “I can’t—I don’t want to hurt you.”

You lay back on your mattress, tug your shirt over your breasts, shimmy your panties away. “Don’t worry,” you tell him. “You can just watch.”

Your hands dip down, one settling on your breast, the other at your throbbing clit. He leans heavily against the wall, left hand—gosh, he’s wearing gloves even at night, how strange—holding himself up as his right works at his belt. Your nipples tighten under your touch and his black gaze. You grind the heel of your hand against your clit, thrust two fingers inside yourself, _hard_. Your moan is louder than usual. He tugs his right glove off with his teeth and fists his cock in hand.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

You arch your back, staring up along your raised body at that glorious cock. It’s hard, red, leaking already. You add a third finger, imagining it’s him inside you instead. Your eyes squeeze nearly shut, but you can’t look away. Even in his large hand, he looks huge. Moans fall from your lips, grunts from his, as he watches you come apart, spilling his own load in his discarded glove.

He slides to his knees, panting. You offer your slick-drenched fingers to him.

“Fuck me,” he groans. You can see the war in his face, how he wants it but doesn’t.

“Never mind,” you say gently. You wipe them on your shirt, shuck it off, pat the mattress beside you. “Stay?”

“I—”

“I trust you,” you remind him.

“What if I hurt you?” he says. His eyes dart between yours. “I—you don’t know me, sweetheart. What I’ve done. I… have bad dreams.”

“This isn’t where you—” a yawn— “hurt people. This is just where you lay your head.”

He lets out a slow breath. It’s enough, or it seems to be, and he stretches out beside you, his gloved hand curled around your hip. You scooch closer to him and loop an arm around his abs—rock hard, as you’d suspected. You sigh, eyes drooping closed.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he whispers, but you’re too tired to answer.

 

—

 

“I thought you’d be gone by now,” you tell him in the morning.

“I slept,” he says, voice full of wonder.

“No bad dreams?”

He shakes his head. You trace the line of his jaw, reach up, press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t shy away, not like the first time you kissed him. Warmth spreads in your chest, and his hands, one still gloved, catch you, swing you to sit across his powerful thighs.

“Can we—”

“ _Yes_.”

You bend down, slide your hands under his shirt. He grabs your wrist when you’ve bared most of his abs.

“No higher,” he warns.

You nod. He nods. You prop yourself up, he pushes his jeans and boxers down his legs, and you settle your naked self atop him, his stiff cock brushing your entrance, thick and delicious. He toys with your clit, eyes flicking between you rocking up and down along his cock and your face, checking, careful, but all you feel is pleasure. Your head swims, arms tremble as you press your hands against those perfect abs.

“Now?” he asks.

You nod. He grips your hips to lift you, the contrast between his skin and his glove a double thrill. You cry out as you sink down, the thickness just shy of pain, and he freezes.

“No, no, keep going,” you beg. Your voice is raw, wrecked, _desperate_ for him.

He lowers you the rest of the way down. You’ve died, you’ve gone to heaven, you’re rocking back against a god or something because this is too good to be real. But he’s not moving. You force your eyes open, stare. He’s staring back, chin trembling, eyes wide, cheeks flushed.

“Fuck me,” you gasp.

“No,” he says. He swallows, rocks his hips so _sweetly_. “I’m gonna make love to you.”

 

—

 

He’s careful not to finish in you. He cleans himself, then you, with more focus than you can muster after he’s ravished you so completely. You’re a limp doll on your mattress as you watch him come back from the bathroom, the morning light like a halo around his face. He collapses back at your side, his arm heavy across your middle. You turn your head, kiss his hair, and then you feel him shuddering. You grab his shoulder—it’s even more solid than his abs—and turn him until you can see the tears leaking from his eyes.

“My god, are you alright?”

“Mm!” He nods, laughs shakily. “I just—I didn’t think…” He props himself up on an elbow and smiles down at you as though you’re the sun. “It’s nice to know I can do things, and not hurt people.”

You reach up and push his hair back from his sweaty forehead. “Of course you can,” you tell him. “Of course you can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think xoxo
> 
> [If you enjoy my writing, please consider buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/Y8Y6WX0V?)


	5. Downpour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get caught in the rain—but you’re not alone. 100% fluff.

No warning—just a few seconds of gathering darkness, and the skies burst open. Rain pounds the pavement, the foliage, the grass. It soaks every soul in Central Park not lucky enough to be under a bridge.

You make a run for the treeline, face screwed up, your purse over your head. Not that it helps. Before you make it, water’s gotten everywhere. Your hair sticks to the back of your neck; your shirt clings to your skin. Even your toes are wet.

Tree bark bites into your arms as you press up against the closest tree, gasping for breath as you watch the world go streaky silver with the downpour. Ten minutes ago, the clouds had been high, almost faint enough for sunglasses. Now?

Dark, glinting…

Almost like fall. If it wasn’t eighty degrees, you’d be content with a mug of cocoa right about now.

You reach a hand out from under the patchy shelter. Raindrops patters against your skin, runs down your dangling fingertips in curling rivulets before falling to the earth with the rest of the rain.

A cough from inches away, and you leap away with a shriek before jerking back under the shelter of the tree, staring in terror at the surprise intruder.

“Sorry,” he says. If he was any further away, he would’ve had to yell. But he’s so close that it takes a moment for you to take in more than just his gorgeous face. You blink at the gorgeous face, the chin-length hair, the scruff, the skin-tight running outfit, the gleaming hand—

“What are _you_ doing here?” you blurt.

Bucky Barnes, part-time superhero and full-time heartthrob, wrings out his wet hair with a wry twist of his lips.

“Running,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

You open your mouth, then close it, cheeks hot. You’ve never met the guy before—seen his pictures, sure, but _met_ him? As if! People like you don’t meet celebrities, or superheroes, or anyone on People’s Top 100 Most Unknown Influential People of the Twentieth Century list. And the first time you do meet someone like it, you… get a smarmy assassin.

Great.

Well, smarm you can handle.

“Walking, if that’s allowed,” you manage.

Bucky grins. His teeth are bright, and his eyes crinkle with his smile. “I’ll allow it,” he says.

“How generous. However will I thank you?”

“I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

He doesn’t look you up and down, not like you expect. He just smiles at you, and you can’t help but smile back. Bantering with him feels like second nature. Like you’ve been doing it for years.

The rain is even louder now, if possible. Footsteps pound nearby, and you tear your gaze away from Bucky to watch a poor sod in a suit sprinting at full speed towards the street, briefcase spraying water with every swing of his arms.

“Poor guy,” Bucky murmurs. He wipes his face down, his neck, and you can’t quite help watching the way his long-sleeved running shirt clings to his thick arms. You swallow and turn away. Your cheeks are so hot you’re amazing the drops on your face haven’t turned to steam.

“It can’t last that long,” you force yourself to say. “Not like this.”

Before Bucky can even respond, the rain eases up. It doesn’t stop, and it’s still more than a drizzle, but you can hear yourself think again. Hear your own heartbeat thudding in your ears as Bucky leans a little closer.

“Well, that was quick.” He links his fingers and stretches his arms in front of him. “You ready?”

“Ready for what?”

His eyes twinkle. “To get outta here before it gets worse again, of course. Where ya headed?”

“Ha, probably to the closest coffee shop to take cover, if it’s not already stuffed to the brim.” You shake off your wet hands—no point drying them on your damp skirt—and adjust the strap of your purse across your shoulders.

“C’mon, I know a good one nearby.” He reaches for your elbow, then stops, his expression suddenly wary. “If that’s okay.”

You tilt your head. “Are you… taking me for coffee?”

Bucky’s nervous smile is the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen.

“I’m offering…?”

“Well, alright.” You don’t jump up and down, but you can’t keep from smiling. “But however will I thank you?”

Bucky slides his hand into yours. Warmth spreads from his touch, and as he tugs you out into the rain, you can barely feel it. Not when he’s smiling so bright, not when his hand is so solid, not when you’re walking on air.

“I’m sure I’ll think of something.”


	6. Sweet Awakenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky’s ready for the next step, but he’s not sure how to say it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soft smut this chapter. Written based on an anon prompt from tumblr.

It hits him all of a sudden—you’re leaning on your elbow against the kitchen counter, one foot midair as you roll out your ankle, one hand splaying open a yellowed cookbook.

“I dunno, Bucky, I still don’t get how people put so much into _jello_ of all things.” You grin at him over your shoulder, and in the flash of your teeth, the turn of your neck, the way your shirt tugs against your side, Bucky gets it.

He _gets_ it.

All he can do is hum nonchalantly; he can’t just blurt it out as you’re making dinner. Well, he _could_ , but it’s not…

It’s not…

Not right.

Not yet.

 

—

 

Two days, and he’s barely contained. But the right moment never seems to come.

He lies beside you in bed, wide awake, deadly still despite the blood pumping through his veins. It’s long past midnight, long past the quiet moments when you’d fallen asleep in his chaste hold. He’d been too shy to do more, not when your yawns were splitting the seams.

It’s been months since you started dating. Months of kisses, of holding hands, of goofing off, of making new boundaries as time went by. And now, the one that’s taken longest has finally reared its head.

Bucky cringes, glancing down at the tent in his boxer briefs with a wince. He’s barely looked at you since you’d fallen asleep, half afraid of what he might see. But your eyes, your mouth, your body—they’re all he can see when he tries to sleep.

So.

Awake.

Dawn creeps in around the edge of the black-out curtain, slowly dousing the room in warm light. Bucky wills himself to calm down, but he can’t.

He shifts with a huff, and then he catches sight of you, and all the breath flies from his lungs. Your loose nightshirt is askew, as usual, but—

Your whole breast, bared. And oh lord, it’s as perfect as it always is, almost more so with the fading bruises from last week’s shirtless romp at your place. The marks of him, touching you, kissing, biting…

Bucky swears under his breath. His briefs are too tight. His blood is singing for you.

You shift in your sleep, shirt wrinkling even more around your arm, until you’re facing him, thighs pressed together and feet twisted in the pushed-back sheets. A little sigh falls from your lips, a murmur that Bucky can just make out as his own name.

That does it.

Bucky props himself on his elbow and curls his other arm around your hip. He ducks his head, breathes you in, and then he kisses your breast, his lips closing around your nipple. The lightest suck, one swirl of his tongue, and it pebbles in his mouth.

“Mm?”

A half-asleep sound, a question Bucky doesn’t bother to answer. He squeezes your bum, shifts closer, sucks a little harder, and the moan that you make is enough to have him rutting against your thigh, his cock leaking and desperate for you.

Fingers card into his hair. You’re awake. _Finally._ You arch your back with a hiss as Bucky sinks his teeth down just the way you like. The room fills with the sounds of his kisses, of him devouring you, and of you. Your sweet sounds are a million times better than music to his ears.

“ _Bucky_ ,” you gasp, and then you stiffen, hands fisting his hair til it hurts, but Bucky only feels the way your heartbeat pounds against his lips, the way your body quivers under _his_ touch.

There’s no pain, not with you.

It’s a minute before your fingers unwind from his knotted hair and stroke his face. Your breathing his heavy, and Bucky props himself back up, memorizing your blissed-out face with his eyes for the hundredth time.

“Good morning,” he whispers.

You laugh and kiss him, and Bucky suddenly knows: it’s time.


	7. all i care about

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of an assassin attempt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song prompt: "As Long As You Love Me" by the Backstreet Boys.

He shoulders past you, turning entirely sideways to avoid touching you at all.

“Wait,” you blurt, grabbing his wrist.

He goes still, still like a statue, like marble, cold and unfeeling and barely alive at all. His stillness, that silent death—it’s a knife in your heart.

You swallow back the bile rising in your throat.

It’s not the HYDRA assassin dead on the floor giving you nausea. It’s not the blood sticky on the soles of your feet, or the blood on your boyfriend’s face, his hands.

It’s how he’s so _still_.

How he’s turning away so as not to touch you.

“Wait,” you whisper. You slide your hand down until your fingers twine with his, the blood slick on your palm. You drag your gaze up to his face. “Don’t shut me out.”

His eyes slide shut. “Babe…” He shakes his head, once. “It’s never going to stop being like this.”

“So?” You tug at his hand until he shifts a little closer. You cup his face in your other hand, wiping away a speck of blood under his eye with your thumb. “Do you really think I give a fuck, James?”

James’ breath is warm against your face, and slowly, he loosens up. His shoulders fall, his hand relaxes into yours, his head drops until his forehead is on your shoulder.

“I don’t… I can’t ever know. Not til it happens. And I can’t assume anyone would ever be okay with _this_.” His voice is raw as he mumbles into your shirt.

You don’t have an answer for him, not yet. It makes sense. Take caution, and save yourself from hoping.

But god, what a horrible way to live.

Steps to the bathroom; you don’t let go of his hand the entire way. He follows your instructions without argument: he sits on the lip of the tub, holds out his hands, closes his eyes. You wipe his face tenderly with a damp washcloth, washing away every bit of blood and rinsing the washcloth clean as best you can. You drape it on the faucet, and then you kneel between his legs and take his face in your hands once more.

“James,” you murmur, and his head droops. “James, listen to me.”

He forces his eyes open, and you hold his gaze.

“I don’t give a fuck,” you tell him. “I love you. I don’t care what you did. I don’t care who comes after you, who wants to hurt you, as long as you beat them into the ground for daring to try. I don’t care how much blood you get on my floors, or on me, as long as it’s not yours. Or mine,” you add, as an afterthought, and he huffs out a little laugh. You trace his jaw, his lips. “All I care about is you. Loving you, and knowing you love me. Do you love me, James?”

This time, it’s James cradling your face. His hands are sticky with blood on your jaw, but you don’t care. You don’t care. All you care about is him. Him, with his bright eyes fixed on yours, his lips just parted.

“Do you love me?” you repeat, your mouth a hair from his. His breath is warm on your lips.

“You know I do.”


	8. Ocean Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The city is on fire, and you’re stuck inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song prompt: "Ocean Eyes" by Billie Eilish

The city is on fire, and you’re stuck inside.

Heat licks at your skin, burning the little hairs on the backs of your arms. One arm is flung around your face, blocking your nose and mouth; the other slides against the wall as you stumble through the smoke, eyes squeezed shut, trying not to breathe.

A loud _crack_ echoes overhead, and your eyes snap open, tearing up in an instant, as you stare up, stomach twisting, at the splintering beam overhead. You dash forward, trip on the ground, pull yourself forward—

Just in time.

The ceiling beam slams to the floor, a fresh burst of fire blinding you, scorching you. You curl into a ball, shielding yourself even as you feel sparks land on your skin, burn through your shirt. You wriggle forward—what you think is forward, every cell in your body focused only on getting out, getting _out_.

But you’re on the sixth floor. The only way out is down, and the stairwell is burning, the elevator out of order. You have one choice.

Well, two.

Both involve jumping.

One choice… means death.

The other?

You suck in one last breath through your sleeve, heave yourself into a crouch, and force yourself forward, forward, until you’re at the outer wall and a broken window is waiting for you, smoke billowing out in thick clouds. You stand, woozy—the smoke is getting to your head. Will you make it? Can you still do it, unsteady as you are?

Only one thing to do.

Try.

You put one foot on the windowsill, look down through the smoke, and fling yourself into midair.

A scream from below, echoed by others as you fall. Fresh air whips into your hair, whips fresh tears into your eyes, fresh air into your lungs. It’s a second before you can see, and then you suck in a breath, shocked by the ground rushing towards you, and shove your hands, redirecting your momentum so you land at a run halfway down the block. You don’t get more than a few steps until you skid, feet skipping against the street and knees banging on the pavement as you collapse, still gasping for air, still nauseous.

People crowd around you, staring, but you shut your blurry eyes, shake your head.

“I’m fine,” you choke. “Get out of here.”

No one comes close. They shuffle their feet, agog—why are they still here? Why haven’t they evacuated?

One set of footsteps hobbles toward you. Someone falls to the ground at your side, and a cool hand touches your cheek. You turn your head towards them, suddenly afraid.

“It’s _you_ ,” he breathes.

You know that voice.

_God_ , how you know that voice. You force your eyes open; tears leak out, track salty trails down your sooty cheeks, and stare up into ocean-blue eyes.

Bucky Barnes stares back at you, his face alight.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” he whispers, and your stomach falls even as your heart beats faster in your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. Sorry for leaving the team so suddenly, sorry for vanishing, sorry for not saying goodbye, for not telling him about the threats, the warnings that had come your way as your relationship had progressed…

But Bucky doesn’t answer. All he does is pull you in tight, his cheek on your head and his hands on your back, your neck, holding you up, holding you.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay.”

The city is on fire. Who knows how many have died, are dead… But perhaps this one thing here—you and him, him and you—perhaps this will be okay.


	9. winter stays his hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier is sent to kill you, but even mindless men can make their own calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt: Winter Soldier is sent to kill the reader, who's also a spy/assassin, but decides not to.

A creak on the stairs to your studio apartment. The stairs _you_ adjusted to creak whenever someone stepped on them. And you’re in your room, lying flat on your bed.

A chill settles in your bones.

You know what this means.

Someone’s coming.

You can’t move. If you move, they’ll know you’re awake, and you won’t be able to take them by surprise. So you stay on your bed, reach under the pillow. A knife. A taser. A garrote.

Is it enough?

You don’t know. Maybe, maybe not.

Scratch that—it _has_ to be.

You count down, imagine the shadow of the intruder lengthening up the stairwell, try to tamp down the frantic beating of your heart. Deep slow breaths, flexing your fingers around your tools…

A muffled crack, and searing pain cuts into your shoulder as a bullet drives into you. You gasp, flinging yourself to the side just in time. Another crack, and feathers fly as your pillow is blown open.

You crouch behind the bed, forcing yourself to still, to listen. To turn this around.

You’ve got a bullet in you, the pain is immense—but pain or not, you’re a killer. It’s time to kill.

You grit your teeth against the pain and listen. The barest whisper of a footstep, and you pounce.

Your knife flashes dimly in the ambient midnight light coming in around the curtains. Your taser buzzes, strikes your assailant's upthrown left arm—

But it’s just the screech of metal.

No grunt, no groan, just a screech.

Oh.

_Oh._

Your heart plummets. Your palms start to sweat.

You know who’s after you. You know who’s here to kill you.

The Winter Soldier stalks forward, his own knife—bigger than yours—flashing as he flips it to change his grip. He yanks your taser away from you with his free hand, and as your eyes finally adjust, you can see his dark, glittering stare over the mask covering the rest of his face.

Click, screech, grunt—knives collide, arms tousle, and legs kick out as you try to subdue each other. But you’ve been out of the game for too long, and he’s the fucking Winter Soldier, and—

He catches your arm, spins you around until your back is to him and the straps of his black uniform dig into your skin through your nightshirt. He curls over you, metal elbow tightening around your throat; your vision goes spotty, your knees weaken, your shoulder burns. Then you drive your knife into his armpit.

The Winter Soldier sucks in a harsh breath and loosens his hold just enough for you to fight your way free. You can see the annoyance in his eyes as he settles himself.

He shakes his head. Does he speak at all?

You hop across your bed, take proper hold of your garrote. The Winter Soldier strides after you, unhurried. An advantage. Finally.

 You dash out of the room and leap onto the kitchen table. _Get the high ground, get the high ground…_

Out he comes. He pauses—you can imagine him gritting his teeth—and reaches for a gun.

_Shit shit shit shit shit_ —

You leap at him with a snarl, before he can fire. A pistol clatters to the wood floor, loud in your ears, as you claw at him, desperate to get the garrote around his neck. Even with his collar, it should—it has to—

The struggle lasts seconds, seconds that feel like days. It ends with his knife in your thigh, your hands and his neck bleeding from the garrote, and his mask clattering to the floor.

You both freeze.

You’re breathing is heavy, labored. He’s still even as he bends, and then the light from a street lamp cuts across his face.

You step back. You’ve just been punched in the gut. Not literally, maybe, but…

That face…

The mask goes back on.

The Winter Soldier takes one step closer.

“Wait!” you blurt.

He pauses, barely for an instant, but you saw it.

“Wait,” you repeat, voice stronger. Surer. Sterner.

It works—your confidence gives him pause.

“You shouldn’t kill me,” you tell him.

“Why?” the Winter Soldier asks.

You lift your chin. You finally press a hand to the throbbing bullet wound in your shoulder.

“Because I know your name.”

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t kill you.

Instead, he takes his mask off.

His first aid is sloppy, but it’s enough to stabilize you. A bandage on your leg, bullet out, hold sterilized and covered. Painful, but necessary.

By the time he helps you back to your bed, you’re leaning on him like an old friend.

“Thank you,” you tell him. You pat the mattress; he sits gingerly among the scattered feathers.

His eyes dart around the room, searching the corners and finally settling on you. There’s something new in his light eyes. It takes a moment of staring before you realize:

It’s fear.

“Tell me,” he says hoarsely.

You take his hand, and tell him.


	10. Officer, cuffs, champagne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Officer Barnes breaks out the cuffs and champagne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a Tumblr prompt.

“Y’know,” you say, feigning nonchalance, “I don’t think this is standard practice.”

Officer Barnes spins a cork between his fingers—clever fingers, those—and grins. His police department mug bubbles with champagne, the bottle just at his side. The name on the bottle is unfamiliar, but the delicate aroma tickles your nostrils.

“Well, it’s not every day I catch the person who’s been terrorizing the city with moonlit heists.” He swills his mug, inhales, and takes a sip. His eyes glitter over the rim of his mug, bright blue and dark with smug delight. _He’s_ free to drink, to slide those clever fingers around the handle of his mug and let the veins on his hand stand out in stark definition along his pale skin. If _you_ want to drink, your only option is the plastic cup of water by your elbow and its clear straw. _Your_ hands are cuffed to the table.

“You must have me confused with someone else,” you drawl. “I only steal things in _daytime_.”

He snorts. “Oh, please, I just caught you red-handed—or, well—” he nods at your dark gloves— “blue-handed. And one a.m. is nowhere near daytime.”

“It’s daytime somewhere,” you mumble. You watch plaintively as he takes another sip. It’s late, you’re alone with a sexy policeman, he’s got champagne, and all you can do is look.

“Why so glum?” Barnes asks. He cradles his drink in his hands, elbows on the table as he leans closer. It’s an uneven lean, what with the prosthetic left arm, but he’s even more dazzling studying you like this, his face open, intrigued. 

“Oh, nothing,” you say. You lace your fingers together and lean in yourself. You swallow, buying time, and notice with no small amount of glee as Barnes’ gaze drops to your mouth, your throat, the zipper on your fitted uniform just low enough to offer a glimpse of your chest. His tongue darts out to wet his pink lips. It’s encouraging enough for you to speak the truth—the first time all night. “I was only wondering why you’re bothering to drink that champagne out of a chipped mug when I’m right here.”

Barnes sputters, leaning back so fast in his chair that he tumbles to the ground, giving you enough time to duck your head and pull out a hairpin you keep handy for just this sort of occasion.

“Are you alright?” you ask sweetly.

He stands up, face red, jaw set—he’s even more attractive angry than not, and your heart beats fast in your chest even as you slip the pin up your sleeve. He yanks his keys free, unlocks you from the interrogation table, and drags you mercilessly down the hall, flinging you back in the detention cell you’d been in for moments before.

The bars of your cage rattle as he slams it shut, and he stalks off without another word.

The lone other woman in the cell blinks blearily at you from the makeshift cot, then rolls over, face hidden. You work the hairpin out of your sleeve, sit cross-legged on the floor, and get to work.

 

* * *

 

Six hours later, Bucky storms into his apartment, still fuming about how he’d been so easily distracted. He closes his door with just an inch less vehemence than a slam—he has neighbors, and it _is_ awfully early—and shucks off his boots, his belt, his shirt on the way to his bathroom until all that remains are his boxer briefs. A quick brush of his teeth and hair, and he heads to his bedroom.

And then he freezes.

You’re waiting for him, his sheet the only thing shielding your body from his gaze as you lay quite lazily in his bed.

“Took you long enough,” you tell him. You shift until one leg is bared up to the hip, and rub your legs together, the sheet sparking tingles between your thighs.

Bucky’s knuckles are white as he clenches the doorknob. All he can see is how your nipples are pebbled under the sheet, the way you’re teasing yourself with _his_ sheets, sheets that smell like _him_ , the mere fact of you, here, waiting for him.

He can’t think, but he can move. He bends down, gathers up his handcuffs from his belt, and stares as you, your eyes as dark as his.

“You gonna tie me up, Officer?” you purr.

“Wait and see,” Bucky says. His eyes glint as he stalks towards you with all the grace of panther. “Wait and see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think :3


	11. Thanks for the Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Thanks for the ride, Bucky."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Tumblr: "Thanks for the ride, Bucky" plus the photo below. Enjoy!

  


 

“Thanks for the ride, Bucky.”

You zip up your leather boots and shoot a smile over your shoulder at the near-stranger lying naked, a sheet rumpled at his feet. He’s got one leg propped up, hiding most of the evidence of your _ride_ from view.

“Anytime, sexy.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you and props himself up on his good elbow. “Hell, I’d go for it again right this fuckin’ instant.”

You can’t help but laugh as you scoop up your purse from the dresser. He’s far from the first to make such an absurd claim. (Anytime? _Really?_ ) You know better than to believe that nonsense. Men as sexy as Bucky Barnes don’t drop their hats for you. Not the ones with sculpted chests, chiseled jaws, fuck-me eyes, not to mention the thighs, the Adonis belt, the _package_ … 

No, it’s just the hormones talking.

“Sure, Bucky. Whatever you say.”

A quick wave, and you saunter out.

Sunshine filters through wispy clouds overhead. You head down the street with a fresh bounce in your step, humming mindlessly as you meander your way home. It’s been a funny sort of day—going to the park a few extra blocks from your usual haunt, bumping into (literally) a blue-eyed stud, the shortest flirt in the history of flirts, and then. Well. And _then_. Your cheeks ache with the brightness of your smile as you pass other pedestrians, some with dogs, some with babies.

Four blocks later, an engine revs loud behind you. You glance over your shoulder, expecting a sports car or some oversized SUV, and freeze.

It’s _Bucky_ , weaving between scattered slow-moving cars on a motorcycle. His shoulder-length hair flutters behind him, and you’re thoroughly stuck in place, staring at him, how he looks, the jeans, the boots, the t-shirt, the fingerless sleeves that leave just a bit of arm and hands bare. No helmet, no protective gear—but he looks at home on his bike as he did in his bed. And all this, you register in a moment.

His eyes pass over you when he’s just a few car lengths away. He veers towards your side of the road—an oncoming car lets out a long honk in protest—and screeches to a halt.

You blink.

Bucky shakes out his hair and vaults off his bike.

“Hey,” he says, voice as silky as ever.

“Uh, hello?” There’s no hiding the confusion in your voice. What is he doing here? Why did he stop for you? Did you leave something behind? You didn’t give him your phone number, even… Maybe that’s it. What else could it be?

“Gee, that bad, huh?” Bucky says. He stuffs his left hand in his back pocket; his jeans pull a little snugger across his thighs.

“What?” Now you’re really confused.

“Well, you don’t sound too happy to see me.” Hesitation in his eyes makes your heart beat a little faster. “Should I leave you alone?”

“What?! No,” you blurt, grabbing his wrist instinctively. His eyebrows shoot up, and you pull back, cheeks warm. “I mean—I’m not _un_ happy to see you. I’m just a little confused.”

“You thought I didn’t mean it, right?” All the hesitation in Bucky’s eyes is gone. Now, there’s just determination, bright and sure and so secure you could drown safely in it. “The part about anytime. Or right now.”

You worry your lower lip. “People usually don’t mean it,” you hedge.

“Well, I meant it,” Bucky says, his voice dropping.

He steps closer, steadies you with a hand on your hip as his chest brushes yours and then—oh. _Oh._ He meant it. He meant _all_ of it. You lean into him, tilting your hips minutely against the bulge in his jeans as his breath fans your face. Dear lord, how had you missed it before?

Bucky’s eyes darken, the pupils blowing so wide that there’s hardly any blue left at all. A little thrust of his hips against yours, and you gasp, eyes flying wide open even as Bucky swallows your burgeoning moan with his lips, greedy and forceful and everything you’d so delighted in not fifteen minutes before.

By the time he pulls back, you’re sure you’ve scandalized the neighborhood. But you couldn’t give a single fuck.

“Come home with me?” Bucky murmurs.

“Anytime,” you whisper back, and Bucky grins, and that’s that.


	12. Can't Help Falling In Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All your kindness has been bottled up for later, and later has just arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song prompt: "Can't Help Falling In Love."
> 
> Set during WWII. Pining, angsty.

Between the bombs and the bullets and the blood, there’s no time for pleasantries. Wounded soldiers weep under your hands, your tools. Arms made strong from holding men down have learned to be unkind—there’s no kindness in carving a man open, cutting him apart. No time for kindness, when there’s nothing but a tent between you and the enemy. All your kindness has been bottled up, for later.

If there is a later.

Sometimes, when night falls and the front is quiet, you lie on your bedroll and stare at the roof of your tiny tent, and wonder. Has that bottle of kindness you’ve tucked away gone sour? Fermented past the point of use? You force a smile, but the darkness doesn’t smile back.

 

* * *

 

Nothing’s different today. Nothing but the echoes left behind by a ragtag group passing through. They’d come and gone while you were disinfecting old wounds, tightening bandages against the onslaught of dirt and blood and gore. Heroic superlatives echo; the strangers are off on a mission the men can’t describe against an enemy bigger than you can fathom. 

Tomorrow, the memory of them will fade. Today, you wonder.

 

* * *

 

The memory hasn’t faded in the time it takes them to return. This time, you’re not stuck in the infirmary tent—a few days lull, and you can breathe. A watchman calls out the strangers’ approach, and you drift to the east side of camp with the rest.

“Some wounds,” the scout calls to you, and you nod and trudge back to your post. Hair smoothed back from your face, sleeves rolled up, hands sanitized, cot and tools and bandages ready—and then two large men burst in, loud breathing filling the cramped space. They’re not in uniform—or, not in any uniform you recognize. They’re dirty and flustered, one blond and one brunet, the latter leaning heavily against his friend.

“Bullet in the back,” the blond man says as he maneuvers the other face-down onto a cot. His voice is startlingly familiar, and it all clicks into place.

“You can leave him to me, Captain.”

But Captain America shakes his head and plants himself so solidly that it’s like looking at a tree. “I’m sticking with Bucky.”

_Bucky?_  

“Alright.”

Really, it’s nothing to you. And even as strong as you’ve gotten, you appreciate Captain America’s help in stripping his friend to the waist. He pays special care to his friend’s padded blue coat, something you notice only fleetingly because bright blue eyes are peering up at you from the cot as you pick up your tools.

Bucky’s eyes are so piercing that you freeze. You’re stuck in place, lips parted, staring down at—at—at your _patient_ , and the thought pushes you back into action. But you can feel his eyes on you, and the heaviness of that gaze makes you all too aware of him, of the strength in his arms, his back. You peel away the makeshift bandage, disinfect the wound, and lift your pincers.

“Hey,” Bucky mumbles, and your eyes fly to his like homing pigeons. The corner of his mouth lifts. “Go easy on me, huh?”

You open your mouth, ready with a harsh retort, but something in his eyes makes you stop. Maybe it’s the warmth there. Maybe it’s the plushness of his lips, the dirt on his cheekbone. You let out a slow breath and nod.

Bucky nods back. Captain America proffers a leather strap, and Bucky takes it between his teeth and clamps down.

For the first time in a long time, in what feels like a lifetime, your hands are kind.

 

* * *

 

That evening, after your work is done, you sit by Bucky’s side, a staticky radio playing on a metal table nearby. He’s still in bed, lying on his front with his bandaged back and his cheek on his linked fingers as he looks at you. Just looks. There’s no judgment, no evaluation of your looks, your figure. Just a steady pair of eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says eventually.

You flinch. “Why?”

“You were a sweetheart before, I bet,” he says, and sighs. He turns his head to stare straight ahead at the wall. “This fuckin’ war ruins everything.”

You don’t have an answer for him. He’s not wrong. You’d been sweet and kind and gentle, and now even a smile seems like an effort. But what you do… you save lives, even if you don’t coddle. The CO appreciates you, even if the men don’t.

You chance a look at Bucky, who quickly looks away. That look away—it cracks something inside you. You rest your hand on his shoulderblade, the heat of his skin sliding up your veins. He turns his head back to you, his expression hesitant.

“I don’t think it’s ruined you,” you say quietly.

The smile breaking on his face is like dawn. “Thanks,” he says.

 

* * *

 

It’s not until you’re staring up at the roof of your tent that you realize what’s been cracked.

It’s that little bottle of kindness, the one you were saving for later. 

 

* * *

 

He’s back on his feet far too soon, but for all that you’ve barely been with him for a couple hours, it’s far too late for you. You couldn’t help it. How could you? There was nothing to protect you, not against those blue eyes and that sharp mind and the warmth of his smiles, however small.

Captain America and his Howling Commandos prepare to leave at dawn. You watch from a makeshift stool at a healthy distance as Bucky buckles up his jacket, brushes his hair with his fingers. His eyes dart to you just once, a quirk of his lips the closest thing you get to a goodbye.

 

* * *

 

Next day, another skirmish.

When they bring in the first of the wounded, you brush back his stringy hair and smile.


End file.
